Black Cloud
by webbo
Summary: "She feels like she's falling, like the world could erupt and she wouldn't care. She wants the countdown to the self-destruct to finally reach zero, and all the times she's saved the world by the skin of her teeth to go find themselves amid a singularity about to collapse." Tag to Threads. Rated M for language.
1. Chapter 1

**_Author's Note: This is a tag to Threads. It's a look at Sam's muddled brain, after she witnessed Jack with Kerry, both in his office at the beginning of the episode, and in his house later on. These moments, where she finally sees Jack with someone else, have always filled me with an enormous amount of angst, wouldn't you agree?_**

She feels like she's falling, like the world could erupt and she wouldn't care. She wants the countdown to the self-destruct to finally reach zero, and all the times she's saved the world by the skin of her teeth to go find themselves amid a singularity about to collapse.

What is ignorance, if not bliss?

The revelation she's witnessed gnaws on her insides. And she's drumming, in her head and in her heart, to a beat that's too fast to count, too tortuous to ignore. She's kicking herself for playing a game where she's not only replaced her standards; she's replaced her ability to care.

What is a future when it's with the wrong man?

She realizes she's frozen in the middle of one of the base hallways, and she wonders if she's always been this bad at handling the things in her life that really count. Not her job, or her career, but the things that will be left after jobs and careers are over. She's not surprised, really, because when push comes to shove, she's never had a personal life, and maybe it's time to stop kidding herself.

What are dreams, if they're not fulfilled?

She wonders why she ever thought it was okay for her to move on, but not for him. She ponders absently how long this has gone on, how far Jack and Kerry have gotten into this. She starts walking again, but the nausea of the situation takes hold and she actually considers turning around, going back, telling him that she wants to give the pink-shirted CIA agent a nose bleed, because he's _her_ General, damn it, and all other women should just fuck off.

Who is Sam without Jack?

The absurdities of her thoughts take hold, and she grounds herself instantly. The short elevator ride to her level ensures that all thoughts of self-destructing morph into self-preserving. But, not surprisingly, they root to the place where they've been before, erroneously, haphazardly thrown where settling for mediocrity beats a love interest wrought with "we can'ts," and "c'meres," and so much sexual and emotional frustration that she can't recount each instance without a great amount of personal torment. She's done with this shit, even if it isn't done with her.

What is life, without a purpose?

She pushes down the urge to power down her computer and run away, from the base, and from him, but she knows it's only an attempt to drown out the weight that has settled deep in her chest. She can breathe a little better, this far from his office, this far from the hold of his hand, and she reaches out to grasp at whatever straws she has left to keep her composure. She settles in to fix what needs fixing, to save the damn world all over again, and she wonders if one day she'll just sacrifice herself for this Earth simply because she has no one in it to call her own.

What is worth saving anyway?

She remembers, then, that some of her circumstances are moved by things that are out of her control. She knows it's a cop-out, that thinking of him as her "safe bet" would never amount to a win, but she can explain the tug of her heart in his direction this way, and it helps to dull her mind. She wonders if Pete will ever call her on it, but she doesn't quite care. Not now when she knows her General has someone warming his heart, warming his bed.

What is love, if not a force drawing two people together?

Life continues, and around her the main lab bustles with scientists on the brink of everything, even as her dad lay dying in the infirmary. At the moment, she prefers to be the black raincloud, her mood hemming her around her pain, warding off anyone who dare question her reticence for light. She'll stay here, until her mind and heart stop hammering, until the others leave, until Daniel comes back from the dead and makes her crawl to the surface and face the world that she has saved.

Tonight she has no answers.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning dawns and Jacob is dead. He's not the last vestige of Sam's family, there's still Mark, but he's the last of her parental support, the last real connection to any kind of loving authority. She's broken and confused because among the last of his words to her, of confessing his love and adoration for her throughout his life, he also mentioned that she should do whatever was necessary to find happiness. It sounds like at least Dad saw through her bullshit, and she wonders who else has too.

Who is she kidding anymore, anyway?

She's tired of being a fool.

And this is it. The threads of her life are unravelling, unsewn.

She drives to his house, ignoring the last bitter experience there, knowing she might find that other woman in his house, in his bed. She'd checked with the mountain and been told he'd gone home for the night. She's surprised he went home, since the world is in crisis and he's the General now, after all, and she remembers that he might've had company. She's determined now, unfazed by what it could mean if the other woman is there, needing answers and needing to say it, speak it, before it blows up inside of her. This is her last big shot, and hasn't she always been a perfect marksman? Do or die, is her moto, and she feels like she's going into war.

Why keep in reserve the courage within oneself?

She's wearing another blue sweater and skirt combo, like the day before, and she ponders her closet contents as she walks up to his front door. Pete liked the soft blue color on her, said it made her eyes stand out, liked the way her legs were free in a skirt. She doesn't know why but she thinks Jack's the kind of man that would like her in black, in pants, in something more akin to her own liking. She knocks and wonders if he's awake, wonders why he's even there, wonders if the woman is there too.

He opens the door quickly, dressed in jeans and a white undershirt, clean, shaved, sinful. He's got a confused look because even though she's talked herself up a storm, she looks uncertain and small at his doorstep.

"Are you okay?" he asks, and she snaps out of it.

A beat, she leans in and looks inside his door, down his hallway. "Is she here?"

He lets out a breath, swallows, shakes his head. "No." He's considering how to spit it out that Kerry will never be here again, when Sam pushes past him and walks determinedly into his house, down the steps to his living room.

She turns and he's followed her, is right in front of her.

"I need to tell you what I came to tell you yesterday," she says, her voice shaky.

"Carter, I already know," Jack says, rescuing her.

She frowns. Waits.

"You already know?" she asks as he turns halfway and takes a step back. He nods. "What is it that you already know?"

He turns and looks back at her, studies her choice of outfit, likes the tightness of her shirt and the show of her legs but knows the color and style are all wrong for the woman he knows is inside. He gestures with his hand, a movement from his body to hers and back. "This," he says, "us."

She stares at him for a while, swallows, shifts her eyes from him to his pictures hanging on his walls, they shimmer but don't leak. The truth is there's more than just the gesture, there's more than just "us," and she realizes that while she was brave enough to come here, she actually has no idea how to get the words out to say what she really needs to say.

He notices.

He walks closer to her, invades the space where she's standing, invades the air she's breathing. "I know," he whispers, a hand going up and cupping her cheeks. Her eyes downturn and tears pour out, even as she's silent, staring into his eyes. She's already raw from the death of her father, and his thumb moves and drags across her cheek, clearing the wet streak, and her eyes flutter closed. They stand there for a long moment, her eyes closed, his hand on her face.

What else can she do, if not seize the moment?

She draws in a long breath and her eyes snap open. They crash onto his and they communicate silently, like they've always done. She moves, bringing her body impossibly closer to his, until they're touching. Her hand moves to cup his neck, and with a minute lift of her heel, her mouth lands on his. If he's surprised, it doesn't show, because he gathers her body in his arms and kisses her back, hunger, and desperation, and love. It's not even awkward, it's not even odd, and their lips fit together like they were made for each other. He realizes she's the only woman he should ever be kissing, ever wants to be kissing… for the rest of his life. He remembers her taste from so many years before, and as she opens her mouth, he forgets who he is.

What is passion, if not an expression of love?

He pushes her back against the nearest wall, and kisses her thoroughly. He knows it's okay, because not only did she initiate it, she's sucking on his tongue and making sounds he's only dreamed of before. Her hands are still pulling on his neck, his shirt, fisting him wherever she can. He tears his mouth from hers only because he has to taste her neck. She's panting and he nuzzles her, licks her, kisses her. She's kissing him back, her lips swollen as she lays her head back and gives him better access to her neck. He's bold when he interdigitates one hand with hers and pins it to the wall behind her head, his other even bolder as he cups her ass, moves her legs apart, grinds his hard body against hers in just the right spot. She gasps and lifts her one leg up, encouraging him to repeat his motion, feeling how hard he is, and her skirt rides up, her panties dampening his jeans. He kisses her lips again, and as he thrusts one more time into her clothed body, he wonders if Pete ever makes her feel this way.

Damn, if that doesn't kill his mood.

He releases her and steps back as if he's been caught by Hammond, doing this on the base. He wipes his wet face, wet from her kiss, and looks her over. She's flushed, red, panting, her nipples are large points on her shirt, her hands against the wall behind her and her legs still spread, her thighs showing. He's thankful her skirt has fallen down and is covering her panties; he doesn't think he can deal with seeing them at the moment.

"Does he ever make you feel this way?" he says, not believing he's actually asked the question out loud.

Her face should crumble but it doesn't. She moves off the wall, lowers her skirt, fixes her hair, cleans off her face. She looks at the bulge of his jeans and ignores his question.

"What is it that you feel for me?" she asks point blank, because she needs to know.

He looks at her and shakes his head. "You of all people know I can't talk about this."

"Why not?" She pushes back, "because you don't feel anything?"

He's silent, his teeth in a complete lock.

"Is it just lust?"

He looks at her, doesn't open his mouth.

"Just a quick fuck and it'd be out of your system, then?" She can't believe she's said that, but she actually wants to know.

He turns and looks at her, hard. "Don't talk like that," he shouts.

"Why not?" she shouts back.

"Because it's not you."

"You don't know me."

"Well, I guess you don't know me either, Carter," he says, fuming, his voice low. "If you even thought that a quick fuck would be all I'd ever want from you…" he trails off, calming, watching as her face does crumble, "you'd be very, very wrong."

They're silent again, for a long while, breathing and staring at each other. Jack breaks the moment first, having decided she deserves the truth, has waited long enough for the truth. He approaches her again, cautiously, sees her eyes question his next move. He places his face near hears, whispers in her ear. "I've loved you for a long time. I've loved you from the first moment I saw you. I'll always, _always_ love you."

What good is it to love, if you can't reveal it?

He steps back from her and she's shaking, tears streaming down her cheeks, her chest moving up and down.

"I ended it with Pete," she whispers. "There won't be a wedding."

He stops breathing, freezes.

"I… I'm so desperately in love with you," she gets out, blubbering like an idiot.

"Sam," he tries, stepping closer again, but she puts a hand on his chest, keeps him from coming any closer. She looks into his eyes and he understands her reticence. "Kerry's never coming back, Sam," he reveals. Her eyes change, and she sighs audibly, sagging into him. He hugs her and she hugs him back.

What is relief, if not being freed from the confines of pain?

He gathers her, cradles her, knows she has a lot of grief and hard days ahead. He meant what he said last night, that he was _for always_ , that she was _his always_ , and he's released from the fear that she may never understand what he meant. He holds her, kisses her hair, kisses her lips one more time, repeats that he loves her. She pulls back enough to look into his eyes and say that she needs him, needs him to make this work. His throat is thick and the feeling of contentment is slowly expanding in his chest. He knows exactly what he has to do, and he won't disappoint her, not ever again. He doesn't know what the first step should be, but he suggests fishing, and she agrees.

What is commitment, if not being completely dedicated to the one you love?

They're silent for the moment, enjoying closeness, and smell, and breath. Her heart is beating steadily now, for the first time in ages, and she can see out his window, can see that the sun is rising. She curses the black days and prays for more of these, days that dawn, days that hope. She can wake up for either she thinks, as long as this man is by her side, for always.

 **Author's Note:**

 **unbetaed, but from the heart.**

 **I havent abandoned my other stories, don't fret!**

 **xoxo**


End file.
